


Holly. Psycho.

by aderyn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 23:02:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aderyn/pseuds/aderyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock in a wreath of holly. (and nothing else.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holly. Psycho.

**Author's Note:**

> Bit of holiday fun.  
> Peace on earth and goodwill towards men (especially these ones.)

John wakes up with little start, clutching at the edge of his blanket. Oh. He's pretty sure that he's just dreamed of his flatmate standing in a perfectly empty, snowy city square, wearing a wreath of holly and winterberry. What? He and his subconscious have an uneasy relationship at best, but this is just... He's glad the dream is already beginning to dissipate, as they will do, because he's not entirely sure that Sherlock was wearing anything _other_ than the wreath. He really looked quite striking: dark leaves, red berries, dark hair, snow.  What the...? He gets up, puts a hand to his eyes, goes over to the desk, pulls out the drawer, looks at his little friend, closes the drawer again. All right. Equilibrium (sort of) re-established.

It's Christmas morning. He has no plans. He could go to Harry's (not), but he won't.  He has no idea what Sherlock is up to, but he's pretty sure it's not standing around under the mistletoe in the altogether. God.

****

Sherlock wakes up, pulls his left arm from beneath a heavy journal that includes an odd little essay on Victorian studies of suicide in animals, pulls his right arm from beneath a box full of bird bones and a set of archival photos of London buildings:  Beautiful, silvery dead things. He's just had a  dream, but it's already gone. He counts the cracks in the ceiling. Mostly the numbers don't change, but sometimes they do. He has more digits than there are cracks; when that's reversed, he supposes he'll ask Mrs. Hudson about repairing them. Mrs. Hudson: a poinsettia? A bouquet of holly and winterberry? He'll think of something. It's Christmas.

John? He's said he has no plants, er, plans.  Good, good.

****

When Sherlock staggers to the kitchen for tea, John's standing there, fully dressed (jeans, horrific dark-red jumper)  but looking (eye twitch, one corner of mouth lower than the other) downcast; uneasy night, maybe?

"Happy Christmas," John says. Eye twitch. He' s a kid who's just found out that St. Nick didn't spring for the motorbike.

"Are you all right? You look a bit...under the weather," Sherlock says. He liberates the sugar bowl from John's left hand.

John (he has no idea why) blurts out, "I've just had a dream about you wearing a wreath of holly, standing in the middle of  a snowy square...naked. Um." He puts his right hand up to his face. "Sorry."

Sherlock, completely deadpan, says, "Are you certain that was a dream?"

"Did you just wink at me?" John says.

"That would completely ruin the delivery,"  Sherlock says,"and speaking of deliveries, there's  package for you on the chair."

****  
John's opening the package (a check shirt from Harry, who's never expected him to show up on Christmas after all,the horror),when Sherlock shoves his mobile under his nose.

"Happy Christmas," Sherlock says.

John reads the text from Lestrade:  
 _  
So sorry; it's the holiday but could use the help. High-profile dead bloke in Belgrave Square.  
Naked. Holly. Pine boughs. Pyscho?  (thought that might be up your street.)_

John blinks. "You didn't tell me about his last night, did you?"

"How could I? It's just happened. Or rather, Lestrade is just getting to it."

"I'm not psychic," John says.

"Of course you're not," Sherlock says.

Then, because it's Christmas and the game is on (or for some reason, he thinks), he takes John by the shoulders and kisses him, smackingly, not exactly on the mouth but John doesn't know exactly where because it's so confusing.

"Wh... ?" John's never been stumped by one of the five W's before.

"But change the.." Sherlock circumscribes John's upper body with his fingers, "will you? You can't very well go to a crime scene looking like someone's uncle."

"Uncle? I like this one!" John shouts.

He's already halfway out the door.


End file.
